


Stasis

by Traviosita9124



Series: Repurpose Verse [2]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Drug Abuse, F/M, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-22
Updated: 2014-10-22
Packaged: 2018-02-22 03:56:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2493509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Traviosita9124/pseuds/Traviosita9124
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after the events of "Repurpose."</p><p>Fitz has to go on living without Simmons. For the first time in his life, he fails.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stasis

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: character death, blood and gore, violence, drug and alcohol abuse, accidental overdose, some sexual content.

 

He does his best to tread lightly, cringing each time his boots hit the metallic floor a little _too_ firmly, causing his footfalls to echo in the enclosed space. He keeps his gaze directed downward as he heads for what passes as the command center, trying to ignore the whispers as he seeks out Trip’s familiar form.

 

“Isn’t that…?”

 

“It can’t be, he’s the Stark Industries liaison. Doesn’t do field work.”

 

“No, that’s wrong. He makes exceptions for missions like this, for Hydra. Rumor has it it’s the only way Coulson could convince him to come back after…”

 

At that, his head snaps up, eyes icy as they scan the green recruits, searching for the speculating voices. None of them are willing to meet his gaze, and with good reason. It’s a look that says he’s not to be fucked with, and is frankly beyond caring what anyone thinks of that.

 

It’s one of the only good things to have developed since her death.

 

He looks away from the newer agents. The reminder that she is no longer with him, even after 1400 days, sends a lancing pain through his heart. It still hasn’t lost its sting in the intervening years, and he prays it never will.

 

~*~

 

Fitz had never been more thankful for morphine than he’d been while in the hospital.

 

It kept him in a tolerable haze, and was likely the only way he managed to get through the details of her memorial arrangements. That, and the extensive living will she’d insisted on them both creating before going into the field. As usual, Jemma had been right, and the clear, well-planned list of what she wanted for her final arrangements had meant that Fitz barely had to rejoin the land of the living for more than twenty minutes at a time, just enough to select appropriate readings and music.

 

The rest of the time, he’d been content to drift, sleeping during the day when the team came to visit and laying awake at night, going over everything in his head. That way he could rake himself over the proverbial coals without interruption, without any of them breaking in with platitudes about how it wasn’t his fault and how Jemma wouldn’t want him to torture himself this way. It was all such utter bunk.

 

He should have been able to stop it. If he hadn’t fallen asleep, if he’d gone down for her meds instead, he might have been able to come up with something, anything…

 

He set his teeth into his lip, biting down sharply enough to draw a bit of blood even though it didn’t do anything to staunch the burgeoning  flow of tears. They were at least silent now, and he was able to grieve Jemma privately for a bit as he toyed with the heavy cardstock and calligraphy set Skye had brought him. He struggled with what he wanted to write, how he wanted to say goodbye to the woman he’d been able to love all too briefly, and would never love completely. Eventually he hit on it, a poem he’d been forced to memorize ages ago as a lad in Glasgow. Fitz wiped his eyes, clearing them so he could see properly, and picking up the pen, began to write.

 

_O my Luve’s like a red, red rose…_

 

~*~

 

It’s cramped in the space, and the walls all glisten sickly in the dim light of their emergency torches, but it is without a doubt the command center.

 

He finds Trip hunched over the pile of pallets that are currently acting as the command center table, examining maps and guard locations. Fitz is confident that there’s already a perfect plan in place; this is merely Trip’s pre-mission ritual, going over everything with a fine tooth comb to make sure everyone comes home alive. It’s what makes him one of the best S.H.I.E.L.D. has ever seen, and in over 270 ops run in the past four years, he’s only ever lost five agents.

 

His grin is familiar and wide when he see Fitz standing in the doorway, and he rights himself immediately to come over and clap him on the shoulder.

 

“Fitz! I’m glad you’re joining us on this one. I wouldn’t want anyone else with me as we finish this thing. You ready?”

 

Fitz forces himself to grin up at the taller agent, but like the rest of his expressions these days, the emotion never quite reaches his azure eyes. He returns the congenial greeting before directing his eyes to the plans Trip had been pouring over moments before. One picture of a very familiar face rests on top of the other paperwork, and Fitz feels his jaw clench and his gut tighten as he looks at the old badge photo of Grant Ward. He’s older now, has a few more scars, but he’s still the same snake he’d been ages ago.

 

Today, Fitz plans on making him pay, no matter the consequences.

 

“Like I coul’ ever miss this,” he scoffs, setting down his rifle and stripping off his gloves. “Now, wha’s th’ strike plan?”

 

~*~

 

The day of her memorial was unfairly beautiful, sunny and warm with a slight breeze, although Fitz knew he should have expected nothing less. If his gran was right and there was a heaven, he had no doubt that Jemma would be pulling the strings trying to keep up their spirits. The thought sent a cruel, lancing pain through his chest, causing tears to well in the corners of his eyes. He wiped them away quickly and discreetly, feeling as though he didn’t quite belong in this world that Jemma had once occupied.

 

He forced himself to stand through the ceremony, even though Alcott and Cecilia had made sure a chair was provided for him, courteously aware of his recent hospital stay. They had even been kind enough to place him in front with the rest of the family, and hadn’t batted a lash when his own mum had joined him. It was more than he deserved, really, after failing to bring their daughter home safely as he’d promised.

 

The actual service was short, not even 20 minutes. Just a few simple words from the local minister and her father before guests were invited to place anything they wished to leave at her memorial alongside her urn before joining the family for a light luncheon on the south terrace. Fitz watched the team file past him, nodding them along when it looked like they wanted to stop to coddle him. He even sent his mother along with a quiet murmur to join her as soon as he felt able, and that done, Fitz took the opportunity to prop the poem he’d written out for her against the bright silver urn. He was reading the inscription, fingers tracing the _Jemma Catherine Simmons, September 11, 1987 - March 21, 2014_ before a soft cough startled him, making him jump and turn around.

 

Only then did he realize he had been left alone with Jemma’s parents.

 

He was proud of himself for managing to meet her father’s icy gaze. Disapproval practically rolled off Alcott Simmons, from the stiff set of his shoulders to the way he thrust his hands into the pockets of his well-tailored black Italian silk suit and looked down his nose at the Scot standing before him. Fitz shifted his attention to Cecilia, despite it making his heart clench and his stomach drop. He was looking at Jemma again, if she were thirty years older, right down to the small, sad smile playing across her lips.

 

“Leo, dear,” she murmured as she kissed both his cheeks, “I’m glad you were able to come. You and your mother both.” She pulled away from him, tears evident beneath the black lace of her half-veil. “She… she cared for you so much. I remember calling her while you were living in America, and she somehow managed to bring every story back to you.”

 

Alcott gave a derisive snort and turned away as his wife finished speaking. Fitz spared him a glance before shoving his hands into his own pockets. His fingers brushed along a folded piece of paper, and the words from her final note began to swim across his vision. He cleared his throat, intent on fulfilling the request she’d made of him before dying.

 

“Jemma is… was, my bes’ friend,” he confessed to his dress shoes, a hot wash of tears beginning to creep down his cheeks. “She was lovely an’ good an’ brave. She-” His voice cracked, forcing him to start again. “She was almos’ foolishly brave-”

 

He paused once more, mind racing past images of Jemma, at the Academy, in the field, standing up for what she believed in. On the floor of their lab, lifeless as the result of one final act of bravery. Fitz rushed the next bit, unsure he could make it without his voice cracking. “I jus’ though’, an’ I know she’d wan’ ye t’ know, tha’ she died protectin’ people. She gave her life so tha’ others coul’ live peacefully.”

 

Cecilia gave him another sad smile, inclining her head politely even as fresh tears began to flow down her face. She seemed ready to speak, until Alcott gripped her elbow, turning her from Fitz. The engineer forced himself to look up once more, meeting the older man’s eyes squarely. The suddenly raging anger he saw there made him regret his decision immediately .

 

“Your words won’t bring her back,” the man spat at him. “We lost our only daughter, and all you can tell us is how brave she was and that she died protecting others. Sod the others. I’d rather have her.”

 

His piece spoken, Alcott Simmons abruptly turned both himself and his wife away from Fitz, marching across the lawn to the luncheon. Fitz merely watched them go as his grief overwhelmed him, a solitary thought chasing itself around his brain.

 

For the first time since meeting Jemma’s father, there was something on which they finally agreed.

 

~*~

 

“Fitz!”

 

His head jerks up just in time to see the female-shaped missile that is Skye heading toward him, and Fitz is able to get his arms open enough to give her something that at least passes as an embrace. He also manages to actually smile for the first time in ages, something he takes comfort in; at least this way, Fitz knows he’s still human, on some level.

 

But then again, he always feels slightly closer to normal with Skye. She reminds him of Jemma, of the way their laughter rang through the Bus as they shared a private joke, or the way they would gang up on him when they were all working in the lab. She was one of the few people he ever saw Jemma be herself around, apart from him, and Fitz knows that he’ll be eternally grateful to Skye for giving her that before she passed.

 

“Hi, Skye,” he murmurs in return, his hands skimming over her back before pulling away. His eyes glance over her, lingering on the slight swelling in her abdomen. Suddenly, his smile falls and any joy he felt turns to ash in his mouth. Fitz fights the urge to let his hurt show on his face, knowing how it’ll wound Skye and how Jemma would berate him for making the hacker-turned-communications specialist guilty for getting on with her life. “Trip’s keepin’ ye busy, I see.”

 

He’s proud of how natural the words sound coming off his lips, almost as if he’s genuinely happy for the couple. And it seems to work when Skye laughs in response.

 

“He has been,” she replies with a grin, “although I’ve already told him I’m coming for him when I get too big to do my job.” Her hand on his arm is affectionate and easy, and it sends a small ping of wanting laced with pain through him. For a moment, he’d almost been able to pretend he was back on the Bus, that things were normal, this was just another op, and Jemma and Ward were in another part of the command center.

 

Fitz blinks and shakes himself, clearing away the foolish bit of sentimentality and managing to rejoin the conversation before Skye realizes his mind has gone elsewhere.

 

“C’mere, Fitz,” she urges, pulling him forward by the elbow. “Slip out of that Kevlar for a second, and I’ll get your battery pack fitted.” She hands him a small, flesh-tone piece in exchange for the vest. “That’s the latest bit to come out of comm. Thanks for keeping your file updated, by the way… kept me from having to hunt you down to take new measurements.”

 

Fitz smirks, well aware of his difficult reputation among the younger cadets and agents; whoever Skye had sent to fetch his measurements would have been absolutely convinced that S.H.I.E.L.D.’s top communications officer was out to end their career. “Ye know me, Skye,” he answers as he undoes the velcro straps on the vest and hands it to her. “I like my privacy too much.”

 

He turns away, using the tiny, cracked mirror that Skye has in a corner of the communications center to adjust the earpiece. It fits in smoothly, and once it’s there, Fitz can’t even tell there’s anything in his ear canal. It’s absolutely brilliant work, and he turns around to tell Skye so and compliment her team, only to freeze in his tracks.

 

His friend is standing, head bowed and her attention focused on the items on the table before her. To her right is his vest, the battery pack set atop it, but the vest and communications set up is the furthest thing from Skye’s mind. No, her attention is focused on two worn pieces of paper that she has laid out on the table before her, the oiled cloth bag they were housed in set to the side. Both are creased, nearly falling apart in places from being handled too often.

 

Fitz could give the details of what’s on those sheets with his eyes closed.

 

Moving slowly, not wanting to startle Skye even though he’s upset that she’d pulled them out of his vest, Fitz gently reclaims the papers, folding them carefully before tucking them into the palm of one of his hands. For some reason, even having Skye, of all people, look at the last letter Jemma had left him and the sketch of her that he’d done ages ago felt like a violation of the worst kind. Tears begin to brim at the edges of his eyes, matching the ones in Skye’s.

 

“Fitz, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to--”

 

“I’s fine, Skye,” he cuts her off, steely voice an odd contrast to his watery eyes and quivering lips. “I jus’--” Fitz is set to explain why they’re in his tactical vest, how he likes to keep a part of her with him and that’s he’s afraid he’s still losing her day by day despite his best efforts. He knows that if anyone were to understand, it’d be Skye, but Fitz just can’t bring himself to force the words past his lips. “Nevermin’. Le’s jus’ ge’ on wit’ this, yeah?”

 

~*~

 

It was too bloody loud.

 

It’s the only thought Fitz could hold onto as he lay in the dark, staring at the slightly curved wall and ceiling of the bunk.

 

It was too loud and in all of the wrong ways.

 

He could still hear the engines moving them across the night sky, and his teammate’s footsteps as they passed by in the hall: Coulson’s steady pace only faltering briefly, clearly wanting to check on him but resisting; Skye’s flip flops slapping the soles of her feet as she paced in an attempt to wait him out; Triplett’s heavy combat boots as he strode confidently down the hall; and even May’s soft, nearly soundless footfalls, capped by the sound of a tray hitting the ground as she left him tea.

 

But Fitz struggled with not hearing the sound of rubber treads on the thin carpet, sometimes moving slowly as she read over a particularly troubling report, sometimes skipping in excitement when she headed toward his bunk for their usual movie night.

 

His grief hit him anew as he forced himself to confront the fact that he’d never hear that again. Not her shoes, or her nails tapping against the lab bench, or the way she’d cluck her tongue at him, or her soft laugh when he whispered a particularly good joke at an inopportune moment.

 

With her door locked tight against the rest of the team, Fitz didn’t bother to stem the flow of tears running down his face, instead turning to latch on to her pillow.

 

When he breathed deeply, he could still pick up on the scent of her shampoo and perfume, and he clung to that as tightly as he could, even as his tears soaked the thin linen case. He wasn’t sure how long he stayed like that, but he eventually cried himself out into a restless sleep.

 

~*~

 

When her sheets lost her scent and he began sobbing in earnest, loudly enough to be heard throughout the Bus, it was Skye who was brave enough to break the lock on Jemma’s bunk.

 

Twisted in the bedclothes, back to the door and wrapped around Jemma’s pillow, Fitz was as far from his normal self as Skye had ever seen him, and her heart sank into her stomach in response. The Fitz she was used to and had grown to love, the man with the unerringly sharp mind and a quick retort, was gone. The one who lay before her was a phantom, pale with red-rimmed eyes and a quickly thickening layer of stubble on his jaw.

 

Moving cautiously, as if she were approaching a cornered animal, she closed the distance and sat on the mattress. Fitz flailed, his limbs caught in the sheets and comforter and making him an ungainly mess when he tried to turn on her. If he hadn’t looked so pathetic, Skye would have laughed. Instead, she reached out a gentle, steadying hand, laying it on his bicep and gave it a squeeze.

 

“Fitz-”

 

“GE’ OUT!” He roared at her, eyes more than a little wild as he struggled to sit up in the narrow bunk. “Ou’! I dinnae wan’ ye here! I dinnae wan’ any o’ ye in here!”

 

Skye recoiled instinctively, but fought to keep herself on the mattress. Fitz needed a friend more than anything, and she refused to take that from him by pulling away now. She held there, letting him rant at her until he quieted, realizing that she wasn’t going to budge.

 

“I jus’ wan’ t’ be lef’ alone, Skye,” he insisted, voice sullen and eyes hollow as he leaned back against the dividing wall. “I jus’ need t’ be lef’ alone.”

“No, what you need is to shower and eat something. You haven’t left this room in three days, from what I’ve seen.” Fitz dropped his chin to his chest, refusing to meet Skye’s eyes and instead focusing on the way his fingers had knit together in his lap. She sighed and after shifting closer, tried again to get and keep his attention, this time her hand finding his knee. “Jemma wouldn’t want this, Fitz. She’d hate to see you this way.”

 

His head jerked up, blue eyes flashing dangerously, and Skye realized just what a grave mistake she had made.

 

“Jemma certainly dinnae stop t’ think abou’ wha’ I’d wan’, did she?” Fitz growled, his voice dangerously low and feral. “No, she jus’ went ahead an’ did wha’ she though’ was bes’. Never even gave me a fuckin’ chance t’ help fin’ a solution. So, please, Skye, dinnae try t’ tell me abou’ wha’ Jemma woul’ wan’ for me. Jus’ ge’ ou’.”

 

Skye’s eyes narrowed as she considered the engineer. He needed to eat, that much was plain. If he went much longer this way, they’d be gathered at his graveside sooner rather than later. She couldn’t let this go on.

 

“No.” Her voice was pure steel. “Leopold Fitz, you will get your ass out of bed, eat, shower, and put on fresh clothing. You will spend no more than eight hours a day in here, ideally sleeping. You will rejoin us and become a part of this team again. You will go on living.” She paused, giving Fitz the opportunity to defy her if he so dared. When he didn’t, Skye pressed on. “And it starts today, either under your own power, or when I call Trip to haul you out. The choice is yours.”

 

Fitz glared at her, his one last act of rebellion before dragging himself from the bed and out of the room. He did as she asked, eating, showering, and curling up in an armchair in the common area for the rest of the day. He just couldn’t bring himself to go to the lab, not yet, not with her death still so fresh in his mind.

 

He knew he’d have to, eventually, that Coulson wouldn’t keep him around indefinitely without getting some kind of work from him, but today wasn’t that day. No, today was the day where he tried to get his feet back under him, even if it was happening under duress.

 

That night, when ten o’clock rolled around and Skye finally gave him a little nod of approval, Fitz fled back to the sanctuary of Jemma’s bunk. Despite being mad as hell, he wanted to be close to her and was desperate to feel her again in any way he could.

 

Which was why, when he realized that Skye had laundered the sheets for him, he merely found the tiny bottle of perfume Jemma had kept on her desk, sprayed her pillow, and curled up around it once more.

 

It wasn’t anywhere near satisfactory, but he would take what he could get.

 

~*~

 

“Harold Tan, the Medicine Man.”

 

The medic’s head barely moves as he glances up, sparing Fitz a withering look as he walks into the medical bay. The Asian man’s voice is terse when he addresses him, despite the Scot’s upbeat tone.

 

“Fitz. Sit down, roll up your sleeve. You know the drill.”

 

Indeed, Fitz does know the medical clearance drill. Coulson had instituted the policy shortly after becoming director, and the engineer has hated it ever since. It means going through the same bullshit rigamarole before a mission, having blood drawn and a blood pressure cuff slapped on just to be allowed to go risk his life anyway. If there was a decent chance he could die during a mission, what was the point of having all of these checks done?

 

Still, he quickly strips out of his tac gear, leaving it neatly piled on the exam table next to him before tugging the black cotton henley over his head and turning back to face the Filipino medic. Tan is possibly the only man shorter than Fitz in all of S.H.I.E.L.D., but still manages to give the Scot a stare that chills the blood in his veins. It’s a look that says he knows all of Fitz’ sins and is passing judgement on them; perhaps in a past life, Fitz would have given a damn and would have had the grace to at least blush, but now he simply can’t bring himself to manage even that.

 

Particularly not when Harold Tan was directly responsible for helping him commit said sins.

 

Instead he meets his gaze and holds out his left arm, waiting for Tan to do the blood draw, and not flinching when he stands closer than is strictly necessary. He expects it, along with the soft, stilted words that come moments later.

 

“When was your last dose?”

 

“Twelve hours or so. Jus’ before bed, like th’ little label ye wrote ou’ says.”

 

It’s an honest answer, and of all the medics Fitz might lie to about his drug use, Harold Tan is not one of them. As uneasy as their relationship is, the engineer recognizes that it is fully his fault, and refuses to lie to the other man, even when he would rather do so. It certainly isn’t his fault that Jemma killed herself and left Fitz a mess, and he’s just thankful that her replacement was willing to help keep himself tidy, at least on paper.

 

“Coulson won’t like that, even though it’s within guidelines,” Tan murmurs as he draws Fitz’ blood, its color a deep burgundy as it moves sluggishly through the tube. “I’ll use your reserves, but we’ll need you to stay clean for a day or two after this; I’m running low.”

 

Fitz merely nods in response, thankful that Tan is so willing to help him carry on this charade, even as he pushes down his guilt about lying to Coulson, the closest thing to a father he’s ever known.

 

~*~

 

_“The new medic will be here on Thursday.”_

 

Coulson’s announcement easily rang out through the stillness of the Bus’ main cabin, and drifted toward where Fitz had hidden himself once more in Jemma’s bunk. From what he could tell, Skye and Trip weren’t taking the news all too well.

 

_“Thursday? As in two days from now?”_

_“AC, that’s too soon, Jemma just-”_

_“I know, Skye, but we need a qualified medic and-”_

_“Look, sir, I can serve as medic. I have the training-”_

_“Trip, that’s enough. I need both a specialist and a medic. If you’re shot, you can’t treat yourself. And if we’re being shot at, I need someone to help May shoot back and another member to tend to wounds. This is final. New medic gets here Thursday.”_

 

Fitz listened as Coulson’s steps retreated back up to his office, and to the quiet, indistinct murmurs that passed between Skye and Trip as they finished with their breakfast and headed down to training.

 

It would be up to him, he realized, to clean out her bunk. Skye might offer to help, but it was his place, and he couldn’t bear the thought of anyone else touching her things. With a heavy heart, Fitz levered himself out of bed, quickly dressed in the nearest almost-clean clothing he could find and went down to the cargo hold to find the packing crates Jemma had left in storage there.

 

~*~

 

It went smoothly, at first. Or, at least as smoothly as he could have hoped.

 

For the first thirty minutes or so, Fitz was able to hold it together, mechanically placing her S.H.I.E.L.D. issued equipment into a crate so it fit neatly and closed securely; it would go back to be cleaned, repaired, and reissued to the next field scientist that would need it.

 

Her textbooks, neatly arranged by subject and author on her tiny shelving unit, were more difficult, and Fitz found himself leafing through the pages, lower lip caught between his teeth to keep the tears forming in his eyes from actually falling. He went through each one, his fingers tracing the delicate lines of her writing. He could tell when she had been reading ahead, her hand neat and loopy, or when she had been struck by frantic inspiration in the wee hours of the morning, her usually meticulous writing reduced to something akin to chicken scratch in her haste to put her ideas on paper. His own hand writing even appeared from time to time, including notes on the mechanisms needed to bring her ideas to life, making him smile and breaking his heart all in one go.

 

But that was nothing compared to what he found tucked beneath her mattress.

 

He recognized the long, flat wooden box as something Jemma had always owned, and settled onto the floor of her bunk to examine it more closely. A gift from her parents she received upon their return from one of their numerous trips to China, the black lacquered box had sat on the small table in the entryway of their shared flat back in Boston, used most frequently as a way to make sure Fitz didn’t misplace his keys, but it had also often held their mail until one of them could get around to checking it.

 

In their haste to leave Boston for the Bus, Fitz hadn’t even realized Jemma had brought it with her, and felt his heart drop into his stomach as he slowly opened the lid.

 

It was odd, looking into this little part of Jemma that even he hadn’t been privy to, fingers gently stroking over the sapphire and diamond tennis bracelet that her grandmother had gifted her for her 25th birthday, and the various snapshots of them he hadn’t even realized she’d managed to take. That was when the first tears began to roll down his cheeks, as he pressed his spine against the cold outer wall of the sleeping pod and arranged the pictures in chronological order.

 

The shot of the first project they’d ever completed together, the pair of them fresh faced and struggling not to grin like the 18 year olds they were. A picture from an end of term party at the Boiler Room, Jemma laughing so hard her eyes were squeezed shut as she leaned against Fitz, and him looking at someone out of the frame. The graduation picture his mother had taken and Jemma must have written her for, the pair of just-graduated junior scientists dressed in long black academic robes, arms wrapped about each other as they proudly showed off empty diploma holders. A few selfies snapped through the years, showing the labs they’d occupied and the pubs they’d frequented, but what caught his eye was the most recent.

 

If he remembered correctly, Skye had conned some tourist into taking the picture while they’d been in Morocco, or so he thought. It had been meant to be a group shot, a quick picture to remember a successful mission, but had quickly devolved into chaos, with the picture ending up skewed as Coulson and Skye made faces toward the camera, May pushed a pushy street vendor away from her back pocket, and Ward glowered. But Fitz had a feeling that wasn’t why Jemma had kept the shot.

 

No, despite the picture’s obvious comedic value, what caught his attention most was the way he and Jemma were looking at each other: warm, affectionate, and clearly at ease with the chaos around them. It was a far cry from the two children in the first picture, trying so hard to fit themselves in somewhere. Here, they clearly already belonged, both to the group and each other.

 

Heart sore and tears choking him, Fitz set the pictures aside and turned his attention back to the red velvet lining of the box. There was only one tiny item remaining, a USB drive that had tucked itself into a corner. Fitz fished it out and considered it for a moment. Jemma, as far as he’d known, had kept all of her lab files, both hard copy and digital, in the lab itself; he had no idea what this was doing here, in her bunk.

 

Curious, he went digging in the equipment box for her discarded tablet and quickly jammed the drive into the machine. It was encrypted, but with how well he knew Jemma, Fitz had little trouble breaking it and soon found himself wading through a hodge podge of Jemma’s notes, with the topics ranging from their pet projects to personal musings.

 

Fitz felt his heart alternately swell and sink as he worked his way through the more personal entries and came to realize that for as well as he had known Jemma, there were things she hadn’t confided to anyone, even him. He’d never known about her doubts about entering the Academy or her ability to compete with the rest of their class. He certainly hadn’t been privy to her crush on their anatomy professor or that she had first realized she found him attractive at 4 am as he slaved over a lab bench. That made him grin, but the final entry quickly wiped it from his face.

 

Jemma had apparently wanted a family. There were no musings about who she’d marry, not really, but there were other details, such as the desire for two children and to one day settle down away from S.H.I.E.L.D. and field work to raise them.

 

Suddenly, he could no longer breathe, and Fitz tossed the tablet away from him, not even flinching when it clattered against the far wall. Overcome by his tears, Fitz didn’t fight his weakening knees and slid down the partition to curl up on the floor next to her bunk. Jemma had wanted a family, and Fitz was suddenly plagued by “what ifs.” What if he’d been able to save her? What if they’d admitted their feelings sooner and she had never convinced him to apply for field work? Would they have gone home to the UK? Or would they have stayed put in Boston to raise two children, a boy with his mother’s bright hazel eyes and a little girl with curls as unruly as her father’s?

 

When Coulson found him hours later, Fitz couldn’t even bring himself to argue the command to allow Skye to take over cleaning out Jemma’s things, or his mandatory, indefinite leave.

 

~*~

 

His body anticipates the mission in concert with his mind.

 

Fitz can feel the physical change as it comes over him, his spine straightening and his limbs loosening as he goes over the checklist of his preparations. He checked the tac gear that morning, and knows that his Kevlar vest, arm and leg guards, sheaths, and holsters are all in good condition. His firearms have been disassembled, cleaned, and reassembled, the mechanisms working smoothly together without catching, and the knives he carries as a last resort are strapped firmly in place.

 

All he needs now, or rather wants, are a few extra clips of live rounds. He has plenty of ICER bullets, but knows that he’ll need real fire power to stop whatever Hydra has waiting for them. And Fitz is absolutely certain that Hydra will be waiting; the two agencies have been locked in a battle for too long now not to be in some sick sort of lockstep, a give-and-take that destroys anyone who comes too near to the epicenter.

 

In the past, he’d thought that it was only a matter of time until Hydra overtook them, and that he’d die as part of the collateral damage… but today is different. Today, Fitz knows that Hydra is in the midst of its death throes. They’ve cut off the supply lines and have harried their enemy for months, picking off weaker bases until they had to consolidate their entire force in Cuba. It’ll make it that much more difficult, but this is the end for the Nazi-created group, and Fitz finds peace in that.

 

The man responsible for Jemma’s murder will finally pay.

 

His ruminations cease as he approaches the armory, the sound of some of the other agents laughing freezing him in his tracks.

 

“That’s not fair, James!” a young, female voice protests. “You got me drunk before you challenged me. I’d beat you if we were sober.”

 

“That’s a damn lie, Carolyn, and you know it! Your daddy didn’t teach you to shoot the way mine did. And I’ll prove it as soon as we get back tonight. You, me, and the firing range. We can save the whisky for after.”

 

There’s a chorus of voices breaking in, taking bets and teasing both agents, and Fitz feels his stomach clench more the longer he continues to be a voyeur. They’re young and hopeful, and don’t even realize that there’s a damn good chance they won’t grow old. If it isn’t this mission, it’ll be the next or the one after that, and the ones that do survive are no luckier.

 

He turns on his heel and makes his way back down the hall, intent on finding somewhere quiet. He can get extra clips later.

 

~*~

 

He carried her letter with him everywhere. It was the first thing he took when packing up his belongings, tucking it into his wallet between the picture he’d sketched of her long ago and the picture of them in Morocco for safe keeping.

 

All of his belongings fit into one suitcase, and so, instead of going home to Glasgow, he decided he’d at least try to do what Jemma had asked of him. A day after Coulson’s order came through, he found himself standing in the middle of the tree-lined _Las Ramblas_ , hands in his pockets as he observed the people. They were young and old, families and lovers and singletons, adults and children. Some were doing what he was, just people watching, while others were clearly going about their daily errands, or eating in cafes, or peddling kitschy souvenirs to tourists.

 

It was beautiful, and everything the guidebooks he’d read had promised, but Fitz’ heart wasn’t in it. He’d always imagined he’d be here with Jemma, that he’d hold her hand and wander the street and get lost in the alleyways and discover the charm of Barcelona with her. But by himself it was just… empty. Beautiful but ultimately meaningless.

 

Still, he’d spent the money on a hotel so he tried, spending a few days going to not only the tourist attractions but also wandering, practicing his meager Spanish on locals in tiny, tucked away bars at night as he drank into the wee hours. However, no matter what he did, he saw Jemma everywhere. She was in the market, when he passed the flower stall selling her favorite blooms (soft pink peonies that reminded him of the blush in her cheeks), in the tiny, tucked away pubs he found at night, and in the sunrise that greeted him each morning.

 

But the final straw came on his fifth day, when he was standing in Park Güell, looking over the city at sunset. It was awash in gold, and for the briefest of moments, Fitz smiled wide. It was one of the most beautiful, peaceful things he’d seen, and without thinking, he turned to call for Jemma, wanting her to see what he was seeing… only to remember that no matter how often he called, she wouldn’t answer.

 

That was his last straw, and Fitz turned his back on the sight with a heavy heart. Three hours later, his bag was packed, the rest of his reservation canceled, and he was on a flight to Glasgow.

 

~*~

 

His mum took a day off work to meet him at the airport, and Fitz grinned reflexively when he saw her standing against her beat up old blue sedan. He practically sprinted toward her, and dropping his bags, wrapped his arms around her and squeezed his eyes tight, just soaking her in. He hadn’t seen her since Jemma’s memorial, and standing before her brought all of those memories to the forefront of his brain once more. He felt like a child, clinging to his mum after a terrible nightmare, and in a way, Fitz supposed he was.

 

As always, Mary Fitz understood, and held her son for as long as he wanted, shushing him when she felt him begin to shake apart in her arms. She had never asked, and Leo had never volunteered, but if she ever needed confirmation that her son had loved Jemma Simmons, Mary was holding it. He had never been an emotional child, not even when his father had died, and she could count on three fingers the number of times she had seen him weep openly as a lad, but now… Now she held the broken remnants of the man who was her son.

 

“Shh, lad,” she murmured, hands rubbing up and down his back. Mary couldn’t help but notice that he’d filled out since she’d last had the opportunity to do this. Time was passing, and she’d nearly lost her son entirely.

 

“I’s okay, Leo. Le’ go. I’ve go’ ye. It’ll all be all righ’.”

 

~*~

 

For the first time in his working memory, Fitz found his mother to ultimately be wrong.

 

Things weren’t all right. They were nowhere close to all right without having her around to text or call or hold. What tore at him the most were the nights. It had only been a month while she recovered, but he had grown used to the way she had molded her body to his, curves fitted against him as her head rested on his chest, breathing deep and even. He’d learned to fall asleep to the cadence, slipping into the same rhythm as he imagined being able to fall asleep that way for years to come…

 

Instead, now he drank himself to near oblivion, until it was difficult to tell which way was up and what hour it was. His mum insisted that he drink with his cousins, and they and their friends obliged, feeling sorry for their awkward, lost lamb of a relative who had finally made his way home to Glasgow. The only real benefit to drinking with them instead of alone, at least the Fitz saw, was that they forced him to take his mind off Jemma, at least until the alcohol really kicked in.

 

~*~

 

Leopold Fitz was a lot of things: brilliant, caustic, impatient, anxious and more than a bit forlorn. But one thing he certainly was not was delusional. He was well aware that this was a dream and would have to end, no matter how pleasant a dream it was. That wasn’t going to keep him from enjoying it, however, for as long as it lasted.

 

In a haze, he let his eyes scan over her, taking in the impossibly soft, pale flesh that was marred only by her freckles. His arms felt heavy, but he forced himself to reach out so he could brush the backs of his fingers against the underside of her breast and trace the curve of her waist as she rode him, writhing sensuously as they both slipped closer to orgasm. Fitz licked his lips and grinned when he looked up at her, and she canted herself forward to capture his lips beneath her own. It was hot and possessive, and Fitz could feel her teeth scrape over his bottom lip as she chuckled darkly into the kiss.

 

Caramel curls tumbled forward, shielding them from the outside world and Fitz found himself transfixed by whisky colored eyes as he thrust up into her, his hands lighting on her hips to keep her where he wanted. Eyes fluttering shut, he pressed his forehead against her jaw as his mouth sloppily attached to her neck, kissing and licking as they came apart at the same moment.

 

“Chris’, Jemma, I love ye.”

 

The words were hoarsely whispered as he pressed back into the pillows, pulling her boneless form with him, intent on cuddling in next to her, when the dream broke around him.

 

“I knew this was a mistake, Leopold. I… I shouldnae have come home wit’ ye.”

 

Fitz’ eyes flew open, cold air pressing in against his heated skin in the wake of her withdrawal as he processed the accent. Blinking, his vision cleared and he realized it hadn’t been a dream at all; there was a woman seated on the edge of his mattress next to him, her narrow, pale back hunched over as she gathered her clothing from the floor. She straightened out to put on her bra, and Fitz could see in the dim light creeping past the blinds that she was a blonde, not a brunette, and it all clicked into place.

 

“Jess, look, ‘m sorry I-”

 

“Why are ye sorry, Leopold?” she asked as she stood, sliding her knickers back up her legs and reaching for her jeans next. “Because ye go’ drunk an’ betrayed her by sleepin’ wit’ me?”

 

She did up the zipper and snap and turned to face him, green eyes serious and more than a little sad. Fitz blushed, ashamed at how easily Jessica Munroe was able to read him, even after a decade away from Glasgow, and that she knew his thoughts hadn’t been with her while they’d been together. He opened his mouth to answer, eyes steadfastly locked on a loose thread on his comforter, when her voice cut him off.

 

“Dinnae bother answerin’. I’ doesnae matter. I know ye were in love wit’ her, yer partner,” she replied, voice brisk but not unkind. Jessica kept her back turned toward him as she tugged on her jumper, only turning around after she brushed her hair out of her eyes and smoothed down the front. Fitz forced himself to sit up against the headboard, tugging the blankets up with him to keep his lap covered as he did so. His fingers found the errant cotton strand and plucked at it, at least until she sat on the bed next to him, her denim-clad hip brushing his thigh and her hand laying warm over his.

 

They sat there for a long moment, both of their eyes trained on the dark green covers as they struggled to find the prescribed etiquette for this situation. Jessica found her tongue first, as Fitz struggled with an acute wave of longing for Jemma.

 

“I wish she was alive, too, ye know,” she murmured, voice more than a tad regretful as her thumb brushed over the back of his hand. “Tha’ way, I could a’ leas’ hate her a bi’ for gettin’ ye t’ fall in love wit’ her. Bu’ I cannae even have tha’, so…” Jessica sighed and pulled away with a small smile, and Fitz was surprised to see her green eyes brimming with tears. “Leo, if ye loved her, she mus’ have been worth i’, an’ since I’m confident in sayin’ tha’, I’m confident in this. She wouldnae wan’ ye t’ do this t’ yerself. She’d wan’ ye t’ move on, eventually.”

 

Fitz stared at her, his incredulity plain on his face as he recoiled further against the headboard. He opened his mouth and gave a quick sound of protest, ready to fight Jessica on what she was saying, but his ex-girlfriend was still too quick for him.

 

“I said ‘eventually,’ Leopold, no’ righ’ now. Ye cannae force these things. Bu’, please, dinnae be afraid t’ start livin’ yer life again one day. I’m sure yer lass wouldnae wan’ ye t’ live like this.”

 

She leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his cheek, tactfully ignoring the tears that were trailing down his face before slipping silently from his room. He listened to her creep down to the foyer, and couldn’t help but grin mirthlessly when he realized she had remembered to skip the creaky third stair before softly shutting the front door behind her.

 

~*~

 

“Leopold, we need t’ talk.”

 

Fitz blinked up at his mum from where he’d been reclined on the couch in hopes of clearing his hazy vision, but he had no such luck. He sat up with a groan, sending the world spinning as he did so, and quickly ducked his head once more, resting it in hands that were propped on elbows that were just barely supported by his knees. His fingers provided at least a bit of cover for his now-watering eyes, and he was able to focus on the coffee table before him. Two bottles of the scotch he’d pilfered from her cabinet, one empty and another nearly there, were tipped across the polished wood, and the tumbler he’d been using the night before sat there, leaving a water mark.

 

His mum gave a soft sniffle that was thick with her obvious disgust for the state of her sitting room, and he forced his head out of his hands to look up at her. “Mum, I’m sorry, I’ll buff ou’ th’ mark an’ refinish th’ table-”

 

“Stop, jus’ stop.” Mary Fitz’ tone was final as she held up a hand, effectively cutting off her son’s apology. “This is enough o’ this. I dinnae give a damn abou’ th’ table, Leo, i’s jus’ wood. I do care about ye.”

 

Fitz looked away, the impersonal mask he’d grown accustomed to wearing whenever anyone wanted to talk about Jemma easily slipping into place. It was just simpler that way, putting on a brave front. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be ready to talk about her with anyone; all he was really certain of was that today was not that day. Still, he knew better than to interrupt his mother, and merely kept his eyes averted as she made her point.

 

“Ye’ll drink yerself into an early grave a’ this rate, an’ I’ve seen too much o’ tha’ around here to watch my own son do i’ too.” Fitz looked up at her, not expecting the hard line in her tone. His mum was done babying him, it seemed. “However, ye are a grown man an’ can do wha’ ye please. Ye jus’ willnae do i’ in my house. Go an’ find some purpose again, son,” she encouraged as she dropped a hand to his curls, fingers gently raking through them as her voice lost its edge. “I’m certain tha’s wha’ Jemma would wan’ for ye.”

 

She held there a few moments, finger combing his curls the way she had when he was a young lad and couldn’t shake off a nightmare until he caught her wrist and tugged her hand down to kiss her knuckles. “Thank ye, Mum,” Fitz murmured, voice low and fervent. “I think ye’re righ’. I think i’s time t’ go home.”

 

~*~

 

His first week in Boston, it sat on the breakfast bar, mocking him with Jemma’s neat script and all of the things she asked him to do after she was gone.

 

The paper was torn in places, rumpled in others, when in a fit of sorrow and rage he’d balled it up and intended to throw it away or burn it, anything to erase the taunting reminder that he was here and she was gone and there was no science in the world that could bring her back healthy and whole.

 

On the ninth day, when his stomach was sick of a diet of whiskey and cereal, Fitz forced himself to shower, comb his hair, put on actual clothing and brew a pot of actual coffee. He found sugar right where they’d always kept it and sweetened his first mug to his liking before sitting down next to the much maligned, yet still beloved scrap of wood pulp. He sat there for a long moment, fighting off the tears that came from looking at her empty place across from him.

 

As a distraction more than anything, Fitz pulled the letter into his line of sight and skimmed over it, even though by this point it was useless. The letter was imprinted on the backs of his eyelids, or so it seemed, along with Jemma’s voice reading it in his head. He’d tried most of what was on her list of requests, with the exception of completing Project Delta.

 

That had been one of their first projects together as full agents, when they were fresh out of the Academy and in their first basement lab at SciOps. It had been intended to speed up tissue regeneration as a way to assist field medics; the hope had been that with a quick injection, those agents who had only suffered flesh wounds could be healed and medics could turn their attention to the agents who were more seriously injured. It was a way to simplify triage, essentially, but before they could complete it they had been pressed into their first major projects for S.H.I.E.L.D., and had been forced to put their pet projects to the side. Jemma had always wanted to go back and finish it, and while there’d never been time, Fitz knew that she had spent hours going over data in her lab notebooks, thinking up ways to keep the host body from rejecting the bioengineered white blood cells the project needed.

 

Tears receding, Fitz pushed away from the table and went down to their storage space in the bottom of the building, where he’d asked the agents who gathered her personal effects to put them after her funeral. It wasn’t hard to find the crates, and in the space of twenty minutes, he had her lab notebooks out of storage and spread across their kitchen island and began the process of pouring over her notes and seeing what he could do to bring Jemma’s dream to life.

 

~*~

 

It was clumsy, far clumsier than anything Jemma would have produced, certainly, or even a biochemist fresh off their first doctorate would have managed, but it was done.

 

After nearly half a year, he had found a way to make the project work.

 

Rather, Jemma had. Fitz had found the answer in her notes, and after numerous at-home experiments and many sleepless nights, had managed to consistently see the results they’d been hoping for in animal tests. The next step would be presenting it to the leadership at SciOps and hope that they would be willing to help him take on human testing and eventual production.

 

Fitz poured himself a tumbler full of scotch, well past the usual three finger mark he found himself drinking these days (although he reasoned that this was different- he was celebrating tonight), and dropped into an armchair in the sitting room. Across from him, neatly stacked on the entry way table, were the presentation materials he would need for his meeting in the morning. It had felt good, in a way, putting it all together, knowing that he’d not only completed an open project, but he’d finished something for Jemma. He’d managed to do what she had asked, and as pathetic as it might have been, that pleased him more than the scientific achievement.

 

Fitz raised his glass in a toast, eyes watering a bit as he imagined the look on Jemma’s face if she had been there.

 

“Here’s t’ us, baby girl. I’ took far too long, bu’ we go’ there. Eventually.”

 

~*~

 

“Wait, tha’ wasnae th’ plan, Trip! Ye tol’ me tha’—oof!”

 

Fitz is too busy railing against Trip’s last minute change in the plan of attack to pay attention to where he’s walking, and in truth, he’s still so upset that he’s only half aware that he’s walked into a someone, not a something. Quickly recovering his manners, Fitz reaches out and helps the other, clearly younger agent straighten out, only to freeze up when he catches sight of her face.

 

He knows her, and a blush creeps up his cheeks when she addresses him.

 

“Oh, hello, Leo, er, I mean, Agent Fitz. I hadn’t realized you’d be part of the strike team.”

 

It’s impolite, but Fitz can’t help but glower as he looks her over, taking in her eager hazel eyes and slightly unsure smile. She still looks just enough like Jemma, even with her hair cropped short now, and has a similar enough accent that even, years later, it still stings to hear it echo down the corridor.

 

“Johnson,” he replies with a curt nod, “I wasnae aware tha’ junior agents were privy t’ mission details now.”

 

Her eyes go wide with hurt and a bit of surprise, but like a true operations agent, she quickly recovers. “Of course, Agent Fitz. I was just surprised is all.” She turns her head, distracted by a call of, “ _Carolyn_!” from down a connecting corridor. “I’ll see you on the other side,” she offers with a small, hopeful smile. “Maybe we could get a drink when it’s all over.”

 

With that, Carolyn Johnson flounces down the hall and toward the voice who had called her away, and Fitz rounds on Trip, who’s watching him with an expressionless face.

 

“Really?” Fitz spits out, “She jus’ _had_ t’ be part o’ th’ strike team on this one?”

 

Trip remains measured, eyes guarded as he pushes away from the wall he’d been leaning on. “Well,” he begins, “considering Hydra won’t just open the door if we knock politely, yes. She’s our best explosives expert; I need her on this. It’s not my fault you two have history.”

 

Fitz’ jaw clenches as he considers possible retorts, including one about how it actually is his friend’s fault, but none that are truly satisfactory come to him. He knows that Trip is right; he made the mistake of dating within the company and now he has to reap the rewards of that particular bad decision.

 

“Fine,” he agrees, shoulders slumping a bit. “I’ll be gettin’ ready. Have Skye call me on comms when ye need me.”

 

With that, he ducks off to find a private place to prepare and focus himself on the mission ahead.

 

~*~

 

“Fitz!”

 

He caught Skye about the waist just in time to keep them both from landing on their asses on the tarmac and returned the hug, although it was clear his heart wasn’t in it. Fitz had thought returning to SciOps, where he’d spent so much time with Jemma would be bad, but somehow, the Bus is a million times worse.

 

They hadn’t had as much history here, but it had been much more intense, with each of them being ground down and built back up by field work in turn. This was where he had realized he’d loved her, where she’d been willing to throw herself from a plane for the team, where they’d finally managed to confess... and where she’d died. As much as he realized that Skye was just trying to be supportive in her typically enthusiastic way, he couldn’t return the sentiment.

 

Still, by the time she peeled away from him, he managed to put what he hoped was at least a passable smile on his face and leaned into her patting his arm before shaking hands with Coulson, Trip, and May. It was then that he noticed there was someone new: a short Asian man working in the lab while trying not to appear as though he was watching the reunion. Fitz realized that he must be the new medic, and felt his spine stiffen. That was the man who had replaced Jemma, the man he’d be expected to work with.

 

Suddenly, what had been such a simple concept a week ago now seemed rather daunting. Somehow, after Coulson had gotten word of his success with Project Delta and had invited him back to the team, it hadn’t occurred to Fitz how many memories would be here to haunt him. He had just seen a way to get back to normal, and had jumped at it.

 

Even with Skye’s friendly embrace and the warmth of Coulson’s hand around his, Fitz worried he was in for a more difficult time than he’d ever anticipated.

 

~*~

 

Two weeks.

 

That was how long it had taken him to crack under the strain of being back on the Bus.

 

He still found it difficult to sleep, with the engines being far too loud after the quiet of their flat in Boston, and since the alternatives to curing his sleeplessness were lying in bed torturing himself with the memory of Jemma or doing lab work, he opted for lab work. So, after fourteen days of 2 hours of sleep a night and Lord knows how many cups of coffee, he was utterly run down.

 

Which is what led to the outburst.

 

Skye had meant it innocently enough, asking if he’d wanted to talk. She had even avoided using Jemma’s name, giving him an easy out if he wanted it, but Fitz hadn’t been able to leave well enough alone.

 

“Talk about wha’, Skye?” he’d retorted, voice bordering on cruel. “Th’ updates t’ the avionics tha’ Coulson’s asked me for, or th’ best way t’ soundproof the bunks so I dinnae have t’ lie awake while ye an’ Trip go a’ i’?” He watched her eyes go wide in shock and a dull blush of embarrassment form on her cheeks, but he couldn’t stop himself. “Or was there somethin’ else ye wanted me t’ fix on top o’ everythin’ else?”

 

Fitz’ breathing was labored as he tried to prevent an even nastier outburst, although between the lack of sleep and having too much caffeine in his system, it was a close thing. He felt he was balancing on a knife’s edge, emotionally speaking, and either way there’d be damage done. It was just a matter of how much and to whom.

 

“That was uncalled for, Fitz.” Skye’s eyes were flat as she stared him down, and it chilled Fitz that he couldn’t see any of her usual empathy. He’d really gone too far, and part of him recognized that, but it was if his mouth simply was no longer capable of giving a damn.

 

“Oh? Tha’ was uncalled for, was i’? T’ be perfectly hones’, I dinnae give a damn if ye feel i’ was uncalled for! I’s bad enough tha’ I cannae sleep wit’ th’ damn engine noise, only t’ have th’ two o’ ye chime in as well!”

 

That sent it into a actual shouting match, with Skye losing her patience with him and Fitz ready to just take his frustration out on the nearest target. They would have gone on that way for a few hours if it hadn’t been for their leader’s voice breaking in.

 

“That’s enough, both of you! We’re meant to be a team, and—”

 

“Some team,” Fitz muttered darkly, but still loud enough to be heard by everyone in the lab, “that has a bloody Hydra sleeper agent embedded an’ leads t’ the death of a scientist.” He waited until Coulson’s eyes were squarely on his before speaking his final piece. “She didnae even have her damn field assessments. Bu’ _ye_ put her on th’ Bus anyway. An’ now she’s dead.”

 

His fingers clenched tightly around the lab bench, waiting for Coulson to speak. The newest S.H.I.E.L.D. Director seemed torn between wanting to ream him out and apologize, and for a wild moment, Fitz thought he might actually hear the man say he was sorry. But before that could happen, the Director mask slipped back into place, along with a voice that was as hard as steel.

 

“If you feel that way, Agent Fitz, feel free to put in for a transfer. There are plenty of engineers that’d be happy to serve here.”

 

Fitz watched him go, holding his posture upright until Coulson, Skye, and even the medic, Tan, had filed out of the lab. Only once they were gone did Fitz allow himself to break down, his tears rolling freely down his cheeks and his breath coming in broken little gasps and shudders.

 

~*~

 

“Here.”

 

Fitz’ brow snapped upward in surprise at the little orange bottle Tan had set down on the lab bench beside him. Moving cautiously, he picked it up and examined the label-less container, turning it over in his fingertips a few times before looking back to the medic.

 

“Wha’s this?” His voice was suspicious, but he couldn’t keep the obvious interest from it, either.

 

“Flunitrazepam,” the medic answered quickly, voice low so it wouldn’t be picked up by the security cameras. “Just to help you sleep. I know you’re heading to the Hub to be Stark’s liaison, but… I somehow have a feeling you’ll have trouble sleeping there, too. I didn’t put limits on the script, but be careful with it. I’d prefer to not both lose my license _and_ be known as the guy who let S.H.I.E.L.D.’s most brilliant engineer since Howard Stark go off the deep end.”

 

Fitz nodded his understanding and slipped the little bottle into his pocket as the medic left the lab. As much as he hated to admit it, the younger man was likely right, and regardless of where he was, Fitz would have trouble sleeping.

 

It only took him a week at the Hub to realize that the drugs, along with a quick shot of scotch, was even more effective, and soon Fitz was able to once more sleep through the night.

 

~*~

 

Exactly one year after Jemma’s death, there was a memorial held for her at the Hub, hosted by the SciTech academy and attended by the majority of the people stationed there.

 

As her partner, Fitz was expected to attend, as well as give a speech in memoriam of her. Just drafting that had been brutal, and it was only with the help of copious amounts of scotch that he was able to get through the day at all. Still, it had been nice to see just how many people recognized the good Jemma had done for S.H.I.E.L.D., even if they hadn’t known her personally, and Fitz was able to carry on at least basic conversations about her without lapsing too far into his melancholy.

 

He even managed to be civil with the team when they arrived, apologizing to Skye, Trip, and Coulson in turn, and thanking the Director for his position working as the Stark liaison. It seemed to be working out well for him, and while he and the rather eccentric owner of Stark Industries didn’t always see eye-to-eye, it felt good to have someone he was capable of going back and forth with when it came to technical specs and developments.

 

It was a bittersweet day, in short, nearly as bittersweet as Jemma’s funeral. Here he was, surrounded by her memory, while being forced to acknowledge he was indeed moving on.

 

Perhaps that was why it had seemed like a good idea at the time, asking Carolyn Johnson out so shortly after Trip had introduced them. She was bright and pretty, with long, dark hair styled into loose waves, hazel eyes, and an English accent that was so damn close to Jemma’s it was nearly spooky to hear. Fitz wasn’t that well dulled from his drink; he knew that she bore a rather striking resemblance to Jemma, even if she was a bit taller and more muscular, but it was a day for moving on after all.

 

So he did. He brought her another vodka-tonic from the open bar and chatted with her for a while, long enough to know that she was a field agent assigned to the Hub specializing in explosives. She was the oldest of six, and a childhood of running after her overly energetic siblings had made joining S.H.I.E.L.D. a rather attractive option upon her secondary school graduation. After that, she hadn’t looked back, and had been enjoying a life full of adventure ever since.

 

The conversation was easy, whether because of their personalities or the liquor, Fitz wasn’t sure, but it was enough to make him bold. He asked her to dinner the following Friday, and when she agreed and kissed him on the cheek, Fitz felt himself flush, even as he grinned broadly at her.

 

The date went well, too, as well as first dates could go. Even without the added benefit of scotch, the conversation was fairly easy and conspicuously devoid of the awkward pauses Fitz remembered from the few dates he’d gone on while attending the Academy. So, after a good meal and a shared bottle of wine, he said yes when Carolyn invited him back to her quarters for a “night cap” as she put it. He knew damn well what she was after, and since it had been a few months since that disastrous night with Jessica in Glasgow, Fitz figured it might be time to try again anyway.

 

True to her determined personality, Carolyn didn’t wait for them to make it fully into her room before she pressed him against the shut door and kissed him. Fitz did his best to sink into the moment, slipping his hands about her waist and kissing her back, but it all felt off. Her mouth was too firm beneath his, her hands too impersonal.

 

Fitz tried taking the upper hand to see if that was the answer, turning them so she was pressed against the wall, wrists pinned above her head in one of his hands while the other ventured to find her zipper and his mouth reclaimed hers, and for a moment, it worked. He was able to appreciate the feeling of having a warm, willing woman against him, enjoyed the feeling of her tongue slicking against his as her dress gave way between them… but then she giggled and sighed against his mouth.

 

“Leo…”

 

The way she said his name was all wrong. It should have been impossible to screw up with two scant syllables, but somehow it jarred him back into reality. As beautiful and smart and fun as she was, Carolyn just wasn’t Jemma. She looked like her, sounded like her at times, but the little things, like how she touched him and kissed him and said his name were all terribly wrong.

 

His spine stiffening, Fitz carefully released her wrists and allowed her to lower her arms so she could catch her dress against her chest as he stepped back.

 

“‘M sorry,” he stammered out, eyes trained on the floor, “bu’ I- I jus’- I cannae do this. ‘M sorry, Johnson. Ye’re a nice girl, bu’…” Fitz risked looking at her, ready to say, _ye’re jus’ no’ her_ , only to have the words die in his throat. It was one thing to admit it to himself, but another entirely to say it aloud. Instead, he swallowed thickly and murmured another quick apology before scrambling out her door and down to his own quarters.

 

That night, he chased his usual dose down with double the amount of scotch.

 

~*~

 

He finds a quiet room just off the main command center, a broom closet that someone had managed to fit a folding chair and card table into, and Fitz quickly claims the space, pulling the chain for the light above him and shutting the door on the rest of the compound.

 

That done, he reaches into his vest, just over his heart, and carefully extracts the bundle Skye had found earlier. He takes care when undoing the oiled cloth, not wanting to accidentally do any more damage to the papers than there already is. Once they’re out, he opens them carefully and examines them in the swinging white light of the broom closet.

 

He traces the tip of his index finger over the drawing he’d done ages ago, when they’d been working at SciOps. The age of the sketch shows, not only from the condition of the paper but from the girl in it. Jemma’s eyes are bright and her smile is easy without any of the stress or frown lines that had developed as they advanced. She looks young and hopeful, and Fitz can feel tears well in his eyes at the thought that this is how he’ll always remember her. He’s been robbed of the chance to grow old with her, but the stupidly romantic part of him that wasn’t driven out by all of his science lessons still holds on to the hope that his grandmother is right. That Jemma is still somewhere, still young and beautiful and happy.

 

Blinking away his tears, he turns to the letter next, reading it for the umpteenth time. He reads it until he can hear each and every word in her crisp accent once more, although it troubles him greatly just how many times it takes for that to happen. It used to be that he could read it once and all he could hear was Jemma’s voice, high and clear in his head, urging him to go on with his life. Now, his own accent cuts in, his thick Scottish brogue where her lighter Sheffield accent should be, and it tears at him.

 

He’s losing yet another part of her and he has no idea how to get it back. Or even if he can.

 

Resolving to pull out the few videos he has of them when he gets home from this mission so he can relearn the sound of her voice, Fitz tucks his mementos away and exits his hide away. The mission will be starting soon, and he’ll be damned if he misses it.

 

~*~

 

His life went relatively back to normal after the incident with Johnson, as Fitz had come to think of it. He went to work, developed new tech, went a few rounds with Stark over concept, design, and funding, and did it all over again. Sure, he took pains to avoid her in the halls, not wanting to explain what had happened that night. Better she think he was gun shy than he have to share Jemma with a complete stranger, as far as Fitz was concerned.

 

Still, he found that he missed the camaraderie he had felt on the Bus. Perhaps that was why when he heard that Trip had been assigned to the Hub Fitz made the effort to seek him out. He eventually found him in the mess one day, and after a few minutes of small talk, found the courage to make a request of the specialist-turned-mission leader.

 

True to his nature, Trip readily agreed to train Fitz. While on the surface it might have appeared to be a terrible idea, that the engineer was too old or too weak or too undisciplined, Trip knew better. He realized that Fitz was hurting, despite the everyday face he presented to the rest of the world. Here was a man who needed a mission, anything, to focus on and feel like he was doing something. If helping him build muscle and learn the basics of hand-to-hand combat would help cool that anger and make him feel more useful, where was the harm? Besides, it was all hands on deck now, and they needed every able body they could get to help put down Hydra.

 

So, he and Fitz trained, at first only early in the morning and then twice a day, before work and after dinner. Trip had never seen someone so eager to learn as Fitz; he absorbed hand-to-hand techniques, learned how to hold and shoot every gun Trip put in his hands, and became rather adept when it came to basic field medicine despite his distaste for blood. While he made plenty of mistakes, he took correction well, and soon was able to hold his own in sparring sessions against other specialists. He didn’t always win, but he fought hard and kept his head.

 

To put it plainly, Trip was proud of Fitz and his progress. Where there had once been a man who wouldn’t know a punch from a block a few months prior, there was now a highly trained engineer with enough basic training skills to be considered an asset on any mission.

 

However, Trip was still troubled by the fact that the training hadn’t seemed to have the effect he’d hoped on Fitz. Sure, he’d wanted him to learn, but he’d been hoping that by channeling his anger into training, he’d be able to let go what had happened with Simmons. Instead, it just seemed to harden him. He was more determined than ever to put an end to Hydra, and Ward in particular, and while Trip could appreciate that level of dedication, it worried him as well. So, he resolved to stick as close to Fitz as he could and help him along the way.

 

It was the least he could do for Simmons, making sure that Fitz didn’t end up dead due to some suicide mission meant to avenge her death. Trip hadn’t known her for long, but he knew she wouldn’t want that.

 

~*~

 

Fitz can feel his nerves jangle as he slips down his mask and listens for the go command in his comms unit. He’s just behind Carolyn and the other munitions experts, watching them as they lay the charges and fuse lines before they retreat back to a safe distance. The go order comes quickly, Skye’s usually joyful voice nearly unrecognizable in the business-like tone that crackles over the wire.

 

Then, it’s chaos.

 

The door explodes inward, knocking back the few Hydra defenders stupid enough to stand too closely. The flash-bangs are next, and as soon as they go off, they swarm the entrance, mowing down each and every defender in their way.

 

It’s a far cry from what it’d been three years ago, when S.H.I.E.L.D. had still been in shambles and Hydra’s force and organization had seemed overwhelming. Now, it’s they who have numbers, and Fitz feels confidence begin to bubble through his veins as he engages with the enemy.

 

~*~

 

He wasn’t surprised by how easily the training had come to him.

 

Yes, Fitz had always been physically weaker than most of his peers, and he had never had any real interest in the kinds of physical activity that would make him stronger; however, he wasn’t considered to be a genius for nothing. Once he got the basics down, the rest came easily and he was able to hold his own.

 

And those skills only became more refined as Trip took him on more missions, and soon, Fitz had a kill count that could rival any of the specialists who had come out of training at the same time he did. If anything disquieted him, that was it. There had been a time when he’d have said he’d always think twice about taking a person’s life. But Fitz had come to realize that these people, their organization, had shown no compunction when it came to killing Jemma or other innocents. There was no reason why he should hesitate when it came to them.

 

To keep his focus on that, that Jemma had been taken from him and the reason why he did this at all, Fitz sewed a pocket into the inside of his Kevlar vest, just large enough to hold two tightly folded pieces of paper. To protect them from sweat, blood, and who knew what else, Fitz also stitched up a small, oiled cloth bag to serve as a shield for both the letter and the sketch, and tucked them away.

 

From that day on, he never went into the field without it. Having it there, on his person, tucked against his heart, gave him focus. It was what reminded him that he was better than Hydra; he was fighting for Jemma, not for orders.

 

~*~

 

All it takes is one good push for the Hydra resistance to fall apart.

 

Everywhere Fitz looks, he sees defeated men and women, eyes sullen and sunken in, on their knees and hands behind their heads as S.H.I.E.L.D. agents secured them with zip ties. But he speeds past them all. He couldn’t care less about grunt-level foot soldiers. Their intel had told them that he’d be here. That is the only person Fitz cared about, and so he presses on, deeper into the compound, incapacitating the enemy as needed as he goes, and ignoring the pain from the few wounds they manage to inflict on him. Those will be tended to later. Now, all that matters is his objective.

 

He finds him the command center, as tall and imposing as ever, although there are signs of hardship on his body as well. Clearly, no one at this base has eaten well in a long while, and Grant Ward’s leaner frame and gaunt cheeks speak volumes to that. Fitz absentmindedly notices that not even his Kevlar vest fits properly; he’s had to cinch the fastenings as far as he can, and there’s still more movement there than there should be.

 

Fitz brings his firearm up and automatically trains it on Ward. The older man smirks at him, as cool and calm as ever.

 

“Fitz. It’s been a long time.”

 

“Too long,” he agrees, eyes hard. He’s dreamed of this moment for years and has to fight to keep his finger from pulling the trigger.

 

“I’m sure you have things you want to say to me.”

 

Fitz shakes his head, resisting the urge to spit at his feet, although he does allow the gun to drop slightly as he speaks. “Nothin’ t’ say t’ ye. Other than ye’re goin’ t’ ge’ wha’ ye deserve, an’ I’ll have a fron’ row seat.”

 

Ward chuckles darkly, clearly amused. A few years prior, Fitz would have been stung by the reaction, and the implication that he wasn’t worth taking seriously as a field agent. Now, he just stands there, eyes cold and gun trained on the man he used to admire. The man he used to think of as a friend. The man who had caused Jemma’s death.

“And if I refuse? What will you do then? Shoot me?” Ward takes a few steps towards him, cocky as ever. “No… you won’t shoot me, Fitz. You know, Jemma had a chance to take me out, too, though I’m not sure she realized it. Granted, she was awfully beat up. That idiot Garrett sent couldn’t follow orders for shit.” The smile drops off his face and his eyes grow serious, and Fitz has to brace himself for what he knows will be a painful statement. “That was never supposed to happen. None of it was. Garrett wanted you both to join Hydra. I was meant to protect you and-”

That’s enough for Fitz. He can’t stand to hear Ward’s version of events. He’d seen the tape from the night Jemma had died, saw the way Ward had intimidated her in an attempt to get her to join Hydra and bring Fitz along for the ride. Rage, followed closely by sorrow, overcomes him, and before he can even think, he’s raised his gun and fired.

Ward’s head snaps back with the force of the impact, viscera splattering across the floor and part of the wall behind him. It’s a clean kill, right between the eyes and an instant death, but still, Fitz is disappointed in himself. The dark part of him that he’s become intimately familiar with over the past four years wanted to make it last longer, wanted to see Ward suffer the way Jemma had, and is not satisfied by this quick, easy death.

But then a little voice whispers in his ear, reminds him that for all of his training and battle scars, he isn’t Grant Ward. He isn’t even Trip or May or Skye, for all that he kills just as easily now. His mission is over. It’s time to lay the burden down and go home.

Fitz weeps openly when he realizes that the voice is Jemma’s.

~*~

For this, the raid on the last known Hydra compound, Director Coulson himself makes an appearance to give a pep talk to the troops. Although, this is less of a pep talk and more of a reminder. S.H.I.E.L.D. has been here before, he tells them. Now is not the time to get complacent, that they must be aware of who is in their ranks and so on.

Fitz tunes most of it out, although his eyes do water a little when Coulson gives them two weeks leave with the caveat that they use the time to not only heal, but remember the people they’ve lost. With that, he dismisses them, and Fitz leaves quietly without speaking to Coulson or anyone else from the team. It’s too painful at the moment, with Jemma fresh in his mind, and he’ll have the debrief tomorrow, anyway.

He does take the time to see Tan, however. What he had thought were only flesh wounds were more serious, and while a shot of the Delta serum fixes some of the problem, the other injuries require more attention. The medic patches him up, and as he dresses his wounds, discreetly passes him yet another orange bottle, painkillers this time, with a whispered warning to watch the interactions.

Fitz nods his understanding and slips the medicine into his pocket, a quick pat on the shoulder standing in for an actual thank you.

~*~

Coulson declares the shooting justified, at least on the record.

In private, he reams Fitz out for not having the self control to bring Ward in, for giving in to his anger and killing the one person who would have been their best shot at determining whether Hydra was good and truly gone. For once, he sits there and allows Coulson to rant and rave at him. Any desire he had to rage against the world is gone. Now, he’s merely tired, sore, and desperate for rest.

Eventually, the fire drains out of Coulson and he kicks Fitz out of his office, clearly still at a loss as to what to do with him. Fitz goes quietly, pausing only to give Skye a kiss on the cheek and shake Trip’s hand before finding his way to their flat. He’s got a few good bottles of scotch with his name on them, and two weeks to attempt to drown his sorrows.

He plans on making damn good use out of each minute.

~*~

As soon as he gets home to Boston, Fitz makes good on the promise he made to himself and goes into storage to dig out any old videos of the two of them. He finds the external drives he wants, the ones from SciTech and SciOps, in one of his personal boxes near the back of the room, and holding them gingerly, carries them up to the sitting room.

His fingers shake slightly as he gets everything set up, but soon he has the videos running on a loop on their giant flatscreen. They’re mostly experiment videos, made as a way to verify data for their reports, but there are a few personal ones that slipped in. A night out at the Boiler Room, with Jemma dressed up and giggling under the influence of raspberry vodka. The one picnic she had convinced him to go on, despite his protests that he wasn’t made to be outdoors. The taped game of truth or dare some of the older cadets had talked them into that had resulted in Fitz hiding behind a pillow, mostly naked, as Jemma bartered his clothing back for him.

He’s lined up two bottles of Glenfiddich next to his arm chair, and as he watches, he pours. By the time he’s on the second go-round of the videos, the first bottle is gone, tipped onto hardwood floor, and he’s started on the second. Fitz is only vaguely aware of how much he’s drinking, taking solace in the hazy quality his world has taken on.

Eventually, though, he pulls himself from the chair, turns everything off, takes his routine dose of medication, and stumbles out of his clothes and into his bed.

~*~

The next morning, the world is far too bright.

Fitz groans and buries his head back in his pillows, kicking himself for not remembering to pull the room darkening shades. He’d had them installed for a reason, he chides himself, but still decides the more prudent course of action is to bury himself under the covers and attempt for more sleep.

That is, until he hears it.

There’s a faint clatter from downstairs, almost as if someone were moving around. That puts Fitz instantly on the alert. He’s been far from a boy scout, has done everything he possibly could to forget his pain, including the odd one night stand. Sitting up in bed, covers bunched around his waist, Fitz tries to remember the previous night. He remembers coming home and setting up the videos, remembers getting drunk and crawling into bed, but nothing else. Still… with the flunitrazepam, painkillers, and alcohol in his system, he supposes the blacking out isn’t the least likely of things that could happen to him.

Scrambling out of bed, Fitz finds his discarded jeans from the night before and tugs them on before cautiously making his way downstairs. The last thing he needs, if there is someone in his home, is to run into them nearly naked.

Half way down the staircase, he pauses and inhales deeply. He can smell bacon frying, and something yeasty - cinnamon rolls - baking. His traitorous gut rumbles in response, and despite his annoyance at the gall of whoever is in his kitchen to make themselves at home, Fitz feels his mouth begin to water. However, the principle of the thing is what gets to him most, and he puts on his sternest face as he descends the last of the stairs and turns into his kitchen.

What he sees knocks the breath from his lungs.

She’s a few inches shorter than he, with her long brunette locks tossed up into a messy bun. She’s wrapped in a pale pink dressing gown, the one she’s had for as long as they’ve lived together, and Fitz _knows_ the slant of the shoulders and the way she holds her head as she flips the rashers.

“ _Jemma_?” he gasps in disbelief, tears forming thickly along his lashes as his hands cover his mouth. It’s all some cruel trick he tells himself, the work of alcohol and medication, and he swears then and there to stop both cold turkey.

But she turns at the sound of her name, and he sees that it is her. It’s Jemma’s eyes and nose and the oh-so familiar, slightly disappointed downturn of her mouth as she lays eyes on him. She’s perfect, Fitz realizes as he takes a hesitant step closer. No trace of worry lines mar her face, and when he looks down at his own hands, he notices that his own scars from years of picking up too-sharp and too-hot scraps of metal are gone, too.

His confusion must be evident on his face, because Jemma steps away from the cooktop, around the counter, and into his personal space. She takes his hands in hers, and Fitz is surprised by how real it all feels; if this is a hallucination, it’s a damn good one and he certainly doesn’t want it to stop. But his mind, ever scientific, demands answers.

“Jemma, _Jem_ ,” he gasps as she wraps his arms about her waist and tucks in close against him, “wha’ th’ hell is goin’ on? Ye… ye’re… Jemma, ye’re _gone_. Ye’ve _been gone_.”

“I know,” she murmurs in response, her hand coming up to cup his cheek, and Fitz closes his eyes briefly and leans into it, relishing the touch. “I know I’ve been gone, but…” Jemma, and it certainly is Jemma in his arms, sighs, clearly trying to decide what she wants to say. “You’re home now, Leo. You rushed it, and I wish you hadn’t, but I’m glad you’re here. I’ve missed you terribly, love.”

Jemma’s eyes, still as gorgeous as Fitz remembers, have glossed over with tears of their own. He can’t allow that, not here, not where they should be happy and able to live out the rest of their existence together, and so he does the only thing he can think of to fix her sadness.

He leans down and carefully slants his lips against hers, gentle and reassuring. He does it again and again, confident that now they really do have all the time in the world, until both of their tears have dissolved into happy giggles.

“I missed ye, too, lass,” he whispers against her lips between kisses, “but I have a feelin’ ye know all about how much already.” Cradling her head in his hand, Fitz kisses her again, more deeply this time, savoring the certainty he feels at knowing this is it for the two of them. When they break the kiss, he keeps his head tilted against hers, noses brushing, and whispers, “C’mon. Le’s see abou’ breakfas’, an’ then..." 

 

Fitz pauses to watch the happy tears running down Jemma’s cheeks that he knows mirror his own. His gran was right, after all. “An’ then we see where forever takes us.”

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End file.
